Forty-two 
THE SOUTH AUSTRALIAN NATURALIST 
March, 1958 
AN AUTUMN MORNING 
It was a morning in May, 
When begins the Australian Autumn, 
Full of the peaceful influence 
Of ripening fruit and falling seed, 
Of the lull of rest and quietude 
After the strenuous ordeals 
Of the purifying summer’s heat. 
The morning broke bright and fresh. 
Away to the east there raged 
The perennial battle of the dawn. 
A great bank of cloud 
Hung pall-like over the mountains, 
And held the master of the day 
For a moment in check. 
But soon a rim of gold 
On their uppermost margin 
Heralded his triumph, 
And in a moment he burst forth 
In all his glory. 
At once the landscape was transfigured. 
The sky shone out in deeper blue, 
The trees and shrubs and rocks 
Made images of themselves 
In vivid light and shade. 
And every drop of dew 
On grass and bush and spider’s web 
Reflected the glory 
Of the great father of lights 
In numberless tiny twinkling rainbow orbs. 
Light and life. 
Glory and beauty. 
Everywhere. 
And yet the cool freshness of the night 
Still lingered in all things. 
The clean sweet air, 
Washed and purified by the gentle rain, 
Which the night before 
Had broken the long weary drought, 
Moved immaculate in all its new-born virginity. 
The white paths, the crisp grass, the turgid leaves 
And the spring of the cool damp earth. 
All spoke of renewed life and energy. 
Fresh as the morning too 
Was the song of the warbling magpies, 
Leaders of the morning choir, 
Which burst spontaneously 
From every tree and shrub and housetop. 
Edgar W. Pritchard. 
